


I've Got The Whole World In My Palms (I Don't Think I Can Take It Anymore)

by babynative



Category: ESPN FC World Cup 2014 RPF, Men's Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Argentina National Team, British English, Español | Spanish, FC Barcelona, FIFA World Cup 2014, Football | Soccer, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Kinda, Medical Examination, Medical Inaccuracies, RPF, References to Depression, Sad Lionel Messi, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Doubt, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Self-Reflection, Self-Worth Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-23 01:21:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19140724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babynative/pseuds/babynative
Summary: Messi is crumbling under the pressure that Argentina demands from hime during his time at the World Cup.





	I've Got The Whole World In My Palms (I Don't Think I Can Take It Anymore)

**Author's Note:**

> Now this is my first time writing Lionel Messi. It's not the best at the moment, so be gentle?? Anyway, I hope you like.

 

Is it fair, Lionel thought with deep saddness, that it has happened again?

  
He watched himself score, the ball soaring through the air with brillance. His heart stopped in his chest, sped up, his head became light and his breath shortened when he saw his worst nightmare come true: the ball flew over the goal and onto the other side where his manager sat stoically.

  
His heart immediately plummeted into his stomach. He felt sick and his knees felt weak. The roars of the crowd seemed to get blurred as, in the moment, all he could think about was the disappointment. He had the heart to look around, to see that this was not true and just some nightmare he would awake from. He had scored, hadn't he?

  
But no. His teammates weren't even looking at him. They didn't score right. He heard the jeering, the insults, the words of hate and threats. Items began being thrown onto the pitch. One hit him in the head and he went down. No, not because of the item from the crowd but because he could no longer hold this team up anymore. He could not hold his home country's Argentinan hope on his shoulders. He felt weighed down by the major mistakes he had made by pure accident. He couldn't score for Argentina, his heart wasn't in it like it was for Barcelona. It was hard because nobody knew like they did in Barcelona. Nobody knew him like his true home.

  
His knees hit the ground with a silent but solid thump. He ignored the registered pain. He felt himself begin to shake, his shoulders pressing himself forward until he was crumpled onto the pitch. He felt the tears spring to his eyes and he didn't bother to blink them away. They fell down his cheeks. He curled into himself further, he ignored the concerned voices of his fellow Argentian teammates.

  
What would he do tomorrow? He would curl up in bed and not move a muscle. He would ignore the world around him and let suffering swallow him whole, as he deserved. What was he, Lionel Messi, if he could not bring home the cup to Camp Nou? He had promised them and he had failed them in the end... Again.

  
The voices of his teammates grew louder. Someone pulled him up by his shoulders. Still, he cried. He cried into the palms of his hands, underneath his blue and white shirt. He didn't want to see the crowd, he didn't want them to know. There they stood, seven of them once one of them forcefully lowered his palms. Ramiro, Éver, Leandro, Mauro, Gonzalo and Sergio. The sounds of shushing, but he ignored it.

  
He let himself be dragged into their embrace. What was he? A pathetic loser. He's lost many times, but losing the World Cup? It hurt worse than any wound, it hurt worse than any GHD needle he had to stick in his leg. Ramiro whistled, and suddenly he was on the ground again. He barely gripped onto their shirts as he knelt on the ground. He couldn't fanthom this loss. He was Lionel Andrés Messi Cuccittini how could he lose? He barged through the ranks of La Masia, he graduated, he climbed his way to the top. Now he was like any other player on the field, and yet he was worse.

His teammates didn't hold Argentina on their shoulders or have their names plastered on newspapers the next day. You are no Maradona they would snap, You have betrayed Argentina they would hiss, Failure, failure, failure... What next? What next? What next? - He felt hands pressing his shoulders down, barely could keep hom from lashing out as he sobbed himself through his pain. They say crying evacuates your pain, but didn't feel he was numb. For now. If only.

  
His legs and underneath his arms, he was hoisted up onto a stretcher. He was deemed unresponsive. He was lifted off, but his team walked next to him. Éver held onto his right hand and Mauro held onto his leg. He felt Gonzalos hand stroke through his hair, Leandro gripped his shoulder in silent support as he was put on the ground, Sergio attempted to whisper silent encouragement.

  
Through and through he tried, not tonight though. “He can't continue,” one of the med evacs spoke worriedly. “He won't respond. Send him home.” Honestly, he didn't care anymore. He wanted to go back to Barcelona, see his teammates who knew him well and knew how to deal with his pain. He wanted Geri and Cesc, he wanted Neymar, he wanted the dynamic back.

  
He distantly heard Mauro apologise. He didn't care anymore. He couldn't hold up this team, he felt the emotions connected to them squeeze him dry of all he had left. He must play in fear of stumbling. He must stay upright on the pedestal, one that his opponents are pushing at, one that his opponents are shaking. He is a private zone of disbelief and self reproach.

  
Messi, the poor man, is thinking only one thing when he sets foot on the international Football field: I mustn't fall off, I mustn't fall off.

 

But what can he do? For he's no Pele, Maradona, nor is he a Zidane.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos, comments, whatever. I just write for fun. Also credit to politico.eu for the inspiration and for some word inspiration...


End file.
